


Muse

by cledritch



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art Student! Winwin, Falling In Love, Literature Student! Johnny, M/M, Poetry and Paintings are mentioned, Sappy, There's like one implication of Angst but not really?, that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cledritch/pseuds/cledritch
Summary: Sicheng was tasked to paint the most memorable sight he found in this field trip. He didn't expect to fall in love along the way.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GRAEN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GRAEN/gifts).



> Nita, I know that you might feel a little depressed so I hope this at least makes you smile even if just temporarily. You're a very wonderful person and just know that you are loved.

His paintbrush is heavy in his hand, bristles tainted with red from his piece of an autumn scene.

Sicheng felt the wood handle to calm down against the flurry of the doubts that’s starting to overcome him with the blank canvas in front of him. It’s the jitters of making a mistake and wasting time when he could be able to do this without breaking a sweat on his more creative days, the idea of wrecking the mood he had set for this piece lost because of discouragement.

His stroke is shaky when he lays down the first layer of paint, blotted shape he scatters with a flick of his wrist before he makes the shape of a head on it. He continues this until he creates a silhouette of red before he mixes in the pre-mixed flesh color he kept in a jar, blending it to get the shadows of the cheekbones then to the forehead, avoiding the spaces where he would draw the eyes and dipped some browns into the red to outline the tall nose. He places the shadows of the face he’s become so accustomed to, lips already taking shape when he plots where the light hit and takes more reds to fill bow-shaped lips curled into a soft smile.

The painter huffs, dipping his brush into water to clean it and took some more attention to coloring in the hair. He makes sure to give little highlights of gold that was always present when he stared into those brown locks being ruffled in the summer breeze. He takes more browns to try to replicate the way that he saw it: full of life and never just one color. That was perhaps how he could explain the subject, full of color despite the bleakness of the surroundings with just a smile.

“Where did I put that?” he told himself, picking up the smallest brush he could find and mixing pinks and purples before he started to paint over the eyelids, then the shadow under the brows. He cleaned his brush on the paper towel before he took a darker brown to fill in the shape of the eyes, curving it just enough just like how he traced it so many times and as the eye become more detailed, layers and layers of black and blue that’s shining with the light that always made Sicheng blush when it’s directed to him. He made light strokes to have the hair shape itself out, strands unruly enough that they brushed over his eye and he took another brush, biting the smaller one’s handle as he filled in with some light brown that he creates an effect that it gets darker at the ends of the strands. He used the smaller brush to give it the direction of hair, flattening out awkward little spots on the canvas to blend it out.

The neck is longer than he anticipated, the paint already drying so he gives it a heavy wash of red the same hue as the jacket that he was wearing. He fixes some shadows with maroon and placing some hints of purple to make sure that it would look as stiff as it looked in real life.

While the subject was drying and needs only a few touch ups, he took a big flat brush before dipping it in the darkest blue he could mix and splattering it in the empty spaces of the canvas. He made broad strokes until he had managed to fill it in as much as he could without messing with the center. He placed some violets around the places where he didn’t fill in to create a contrast.

Sometimes Sicheng gets lost. He gets lost in the smell of paint that has become comforting over the years, his only friend in lonely nights when he’s alone with thoughts of not being good enough and flat broke that he needed to find ways to be able to pay rent. He always had art with him no matter how many times he felt like giving up on it when the fear of wasting his time came creeping in. He’s learned how to paint since he was a child from scribbles before he picked up a brush and a dollar store watercolor set that started everything. He sought to better himself with every painting he messed up, with every material he wasted when he threw them to a wall in frustration and the papers he ripped apart when he was on the verge of desperation.

Creativity was a cruel thing, abstract as it may be that comes and go when it wants even when you want to hold it in your hands forever. Sicheng has ambitions that need creativity as a central focus but despite finishing a certain painting he will always feel like it’s not enough. It’s never enough, never satisfying for him. The lines are too dark, the color too bright like it’s assaulting his vision, the proportions way off that if anyone would see it, it would be embarrassing.  Sicheng believes that if it’s not as good as he envisioned it, it’s not good enough and it frustrates him to no end. Yet that’s not the worse, oh no, it isn’t. Sicheng had found that the worst thing he needs to go through is when the work he takes pride in the most is brushed off as nothing, the silent rejection that comes from realizing your best was still not enough even when those close to you try to comfort you with encouragement. He’s long past the times where he needs complete validation but there are times he wonders if he really should be picking up a brush when no one would care but him. It’s a sudden thought he pushes back every time he sees paintings, sees artists giving advice that made him feel like it’s not only his problem and that everyone goes through this. But Sicheng listens to the doubts that whisper to his ears, lets his mind wander to the negatives of his work but that’s it. He listens to them before he puts on his earphones and let the sound of pianos wash away the voices that always wanted to make him curl up in his covers.

Sicheng is lost in his painting, already on the point that he’s placing the highlights and the shadows that made it seem as if the subject is coming out of the canvas. He’s almost done with the background, cool tones that tried to make a mixture of violets, blues and oranges that gave off a glow on the skin. The galaxy and the sunset, he wanted to incorporate both elements because Johnny was both for him.

“I hope he likes it,” He told himself as he stood up, using his stool as leverage when he realized his feet had fallen asleep. He stretched his arms, not minding that he might have smudges of paint on his face with how much he kept rubbing his face with his hands when he was thinking about what to do next. The painting on the easel felt like it was something that Sicheng couldn’t possibly make, a sense of joy rushing through his mind when he found that all that was left was to varnish the piece “It’s the only thing I can give him before I go, after all.”

He walked out of his studio heading to the kitchen to get some water. The clock hanging on the wall he passed by showed that it was already three in the morning that made him calculate the time he spent over the piece, roughly five hours and he almost threw his glass to the sink to get his phone from the coffee table. He brushed away a strand of his hair that went to his eye, unlocking the device before he saw the messages that bombarded his inbox. Mostly from Kun who had kept asking if he was alright and if he was sleeping early instead of pouring his entire being to a painting while the rest were from Johnny.

The moment he read the message “Sleep early, kid. Your flight is tomorrow so get well-rested,” his heart started to thump erratically.

Sicheng pressed the top of his phone to his lips to try and stop the smile on his face from widening even more. He’s so obvious, isn’t he? Just on the first message and he’s already flustered, god. Sicheng cleared his throat for no reason, hitting his head to calm himself as he looks over his phone again and scrolls down to read the rest.

“Eat dinner, don’t forget again.”

“I know you like to think sleep is just a concept but you’re only human.”

“Don’t sleep on me when I pick you up tomorrow.”

“I love you. Good night and sleep, I mean it.”

Sicheng let out an embarrassing noise at the last message, sighing before he decided against replying to the messages because it would obvious that he didn’t sleep at all. He placed the phone back before covering his face with his hands, palms rubbing his cheeks before he patted them. “I hate him.”

He went to the bathroom to see that he had paint in his hair, streaks of colors that’s smeared onto his face that it got to his lashes after how he rubbed his face. Huffing, he washed his face to get rid of it and then changed out of his clothes into his pajamas.

He doesn’t know how Johnny will react with the painting he made, hoping the elder wouldn’t think he was mocking him by painting his face.

It was the only thing he could think of bringing the memories he treasured here in America with back to Korea where he would need to finish his art course, hoping that Johnny would still want to keep this relationship with him. They’ve been together since the start of this field trip, two months of getting to know each other as Johnny helped me through the streets of Chicago and pointing out some of the places that might interest Sicheng’s creative output but the scenery didn’t catch the younger’s eye. It wasn’t the way the sun shone down on the rustic buildings they visited, wasn’t the food that Johnny treated him that he couldn’t finish because he had a strict diet to follow that made the elder finish it and it wasn’t the galleries that showed the talents of fellow artists that were supposed to inspire him.

Sicheng’s eyes were drawn to the way Johnny’s lips stretched when he smiled at him, the way the wind ruffled his hair that he didn’t mind being messed up. The way he walked beside Sicheng, enthusiasm brimming with every word he said in hopes that he would help Sicheng in his artistic pursuits and there’s just something beautiful about the harsh shadows that casted on the elder’s face when they ate dinner despite the shitty lighting of the industrial bulbs and too bright glare.

The brightest memory Sicheng has of Johnny is the first time the latter kissed him, underneath the night sky while he was using a flashlight to illuminate the sketchbook he had on his lap so he could get the shape of the buildings in the light of the moon as he blotted black scribbles using his charcoal stick. There’s the cold breeze that makes Sicheng huddle his knees closer as much as he could without knocking his pad off its perch, shivering as Johnny hummed some tune to occupy himself because his phone died. It’s really not good for his eyes to draw in the dark but he wanted to make some references because he doesn’t know when he’d be able to see the moon at this angle so he had roped Johnny with him, one to show him where is the best spot to do just that and two because he wanted him there.  It’s the sensation of having someone not asking about what he’s making, of what concept he’s trying to follow and still looking at him with so much awe when he showed him the little sketches he made.

It was never “I wish I could draw like you.”

Johnny would always say “You’re God’s gift trying to recreate the beauty he made.”

It’s the sappiest thing he’s ever heard, flirtatious but with the lingering softness of his tome that never made Sicheng feel as if it were just a joke. The genuine admiration that Johnny found in his art was astounding, different from people who didn’t believe he could do it or take advantage of him for free art.  There’s something about Johnny that makes Sicheng want to trace his features and imprint into his memory every curve and bump that makes up the proportions of his face just so he can draw it without needing to reference. But then he won’t be able to capture the emotions that Johnny carried with him that’s molded into his skin like tattoos that he cannot see but still know it’s marking him.

One more thing Sicheng got from hanging out from someone working on their Literature Degree is that he started saying things that belong to a poem. Johnny was the one good with words and Sicheng was good with visuals on paper.

Sicheng felt something nudge his chin up, making him stare to the sky dotted with millions of stars that Sicheng always felt drawn towards. The surreal image that there’s something bigger out there, the idea that the universe is too vast to be comprehended that catching glimpses of it feels like you’re barely scratching the surface.

“What do you think is the most beautiful view here?” Johnny asked, voice hushed despite sitting beside Sicheng that their arms brushed “You always did say the pollution in China made it difficult to see the night sky. How about now?”

The younger smudged the heavy line he made under the neck of what he was drawing, moving to do the same around the eyes of the portrait he was making while he balanced the flashlight by tucking it between his collar and chin “It’s something…”

“Just something?” Johnny scoffed, staring at what Sicheng was drawing much to the younger’s embarrassment as he tried to hide it “Is it not up to your standards? We can leave, if you want because I don’t think it’s good for your eyes to draw in this darkness.”

Sicheng couldn’t stop his mouth from running, eyes catching the elder’s when he blurted out “It feels better to draw something when I feel inspired.”

Johnny ruffled his hair as he jokingly said “So I perhaps I inspire you then?”

Without missing a beat, Sicheng said “You’re all that inspires me these days.”

It was there, the sudden tense atmosphere that came when they tried to relate art with each other. Johnny who would write a poem and let Sicheng listen to it, words that always struck a chord inside the latter that gave him.

“There's nothing like you, soft enough to be kind but strong enough to withstand the trials. You are a masterpiece and you're still developing.  Don't get lost with the flames you're about to walk into, just keep smiling because with your warmth comes people who will support you.  You kill with kindness and it’s the death I’m not afraid to face.”

Warmt spreads like wildfire on his cheeks as Johnny stared at him when he recited it, eyes never leaving his with how much emotion he’s pouring into every word to convince someone, convince Sicheng perhaps that he meant everything he said. The strength of words can only be as strong as the person delivers it to convince their audience of the meaning behind them.

Johnny always had the ability to pull a poem out of nowhere and Sicheng wanted to duck his head to hide his blush even if it would be hard to see it in the dark but Johnny has a palm on his cheek, leaning closer that Sicheng can see the elder’s lashes fanning down as he closed his eyes and pressed a close-mouthed kisses on the younger trembling lips.

It was then that Sicheng realized that perhaps he might have made Johnny his muse without really meaning to the same way Johnny was his.

Such a shame that Sicheng’s time in Chicago was on its end.

 

(The painting Johnny held was like a reflection of him, the same features he sees in his mirror everyday staring back at him with half-lidded eyes and having a Luna moth resting on his ear with the background of a galaxy mingling with a sunset that bleeds into the skin of the image. He chuckled at the idea that Sicheng had spent so much time trying to make color studies to get the right amount of blending and the figure drawings he must have of Johnny to get his expression right. He’s surprised that Sicheng even managed to create this without him even having the slightest idea that he had this project already set.

But Sicheng had given it to him the day he boarded the plane back home, looking calmer than he felt and he felt like hugging the boy close and tell him it would be alright between them. He would make do with calls and the time zone difference if it meant having Sicheng loving him despite the distance because he doesn’t want to let go. This brilliant boy who was made to be part of the masterpieces hung on walls, the one he backed to a wall and kissed inside a gallery show just to prove the point that he was as beautiful as the art he made. Sicheng kept things bottled inside sometimes that the only outlet he had were his paintings and Johnny wanted to pry into the doubts that plagued him, expel the demons that Sicheng tried to quench with paint and varnish the same way he did with words and crafted sentences.

“What are you thinking? Are you looking at my painting from the field trip?” Sicheng asked from the room he was in, voice muffled but Johnny called out a “Yep!” to let him know he had heard “I swear you’re narcissistic sometimes.”

Johnny laughed, walking to where the younger is flipping through a familiar leather bound book that had Johnny’s name embossed on the cover. He tiptoed towards the boy who had his back to him before wrapping his arms around his waist and planting kisses on the side of his neck.

Sicheng made a sound of surprise, pulling away to smack Johnny with the book he held “Stop that!”

Johnny pouted, holding Sicheng’s wrists to stop him from abusing the book he held “Hey, is that how you’re going to treat that poetry book I wrote for you?”

“You shouldn’t have surprised me,” Sicheng huffed, blushing at the mention of the poems that Johnny wrote for him the few weeks they were apart. It was something that made Sicheng cringe with how he missed Johnny who was countries away that even the little calls and messages they sent to each other deterred him from making anything. His teachers had congratulated him for his piece but the painting only made him recall the warmth of Johnny’s embrace, the kisses he gave and the words he said that he broke down every time they mentioned it in passing. It was only five months after did Sicheng cry into his palette that his paints got tears in them when Johnny started to recite to him the poem that came with their first kiss.

“But I like surprising you,” Johnny smiled, placing his hand on his cheek to coo at the younger before he snapped his fingers “It’s something I’m good at.”

Sicheng rolled his eyes and picked up where he was reading, ignoring Johnny who found out this the perfect opportunity to do what he had intended to do today. He intertwined his fingers with Sicheng’s, humming a tune before he said offhandedly “Yes can mean a lot of things. Yes, please love me. Yes, you may have a piece of my heart. Yes, there are times you’ll ask yourself how we ended up together when the world is unpredictable.  But-“he pulled his fingers out of the space between the younger’s to hold his hand up and slip a silver ring on the younger’s ring finger “Yes, would you marry me because I’m at the loss of words with how much I’m in love with you.”

Johnny found himself being hugged tightly that he fell to the floor with Sicheng scolding him for being so sure that the younger wanted to marry him despite the tears he’s making Johnny’s collar wet. But the yes that followed was more than enough to hug Sicheng tighter.)


End file.
